Doors-Ruby Red References.

I see the creases or are the cracks in the sidewalk as I throttle down memory lane. Touche, Cliche as it sounds it describes those crisp December mornings when warming the car signified a long day's journey and confusion laced the clarity. Back then I knew what I wanted, was nothing more than to want-more of myself, from myself, by myself.

And now, fast forward a few hundred minutes and thousand seconds to the place, which has no name-perhaps a door, an overbearing archaic door, with black metal hinges which is closed off to the world. Which has no other entrance but that which is before me. How do I get through?

And then a key, hidden, which was carved out to serve a purpose other than its own. A key which knows no bounds and sees no circumstances, which doesn't allow and doesn't reject.

Cliche, Touche-a door and key. Its like a soul without a face and a face without a name. A lost soul with a nameless face only to be discovered inadvertently in some century's 42nd hour remotely, in a floating haven.Heaven.

But when if not now.

Only time can bring about the marriage, in the interim the rust and dust cover the hinges and metal leaving the locked-impenetrable.